"Joff," Her beautiful rosebud lips curved into a smile of pure ecstasy, whispering his name and other sweet nothings into the hollow of his throat.

Joffrey pulled his mouth away from her skin for an instant to admire her graceful body, barely illuminated by the candlelight. Sansa Stark, her soft billows of red hair, her milky white skin and barely-open eyes that couldn't ever decide to stay just one colour. They were a constant kaleidoscope of blues as dark as the sea and greens as fresh as summer grass.

She was a lady of Winterfell doomed to spend all of eternity in Kings Landing by his side. She made it clear during the day how much she despised that idea, despised him. But at night, her protests would slip away at one touch and she belonged to him once more.

Yes, she was his. No matter how much she fought.

All mine, he thought greedily, possessively his lips capturing hers once more. Her fingers tangled in his blonde hair, her body arching up against him, bringing him impossibly close.

Joffrey loved the sound of her moans, only, he couldn't decide whether he preferred her moans of pain or pleasure. Each brought a certain degree of satisfaction to the sadistic king, knowing that he was the cause of them both.

They rolled together gracefully on the bed, tangled in a mess of love and hate, anger and passion. Joffrey decided that the line between love and hate was so indistinguishable they were practically the same. He supposed that he did love Sansa Stark. As much as someone like him could love another.